


Everything Is Automatic

by Kypros



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Background Relationships, Bad Parenting, Emotional Baggage, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7092358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kypros/pseuds/Kypros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the better part of a decade later when Ryotaro Dojima (age forty-two, blood type O-negative, dead smile, smokers cough) begins to start faking it. It is the better part of a decade later when everything breaks, so simple that he'd really been begging for it. Still, he had known, deep down, with his tragedies and exhaustion and terrifying practicality that it was useless ignoring it. And all roads lead to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Is Automatic

**Author's Note:**

> This is super old - like 2012 old. More chapters to come as I edit it.

Ryotaro knows he is falling apart when he watches the walls of his town house lighten from black to gray to gray to white from the worn, lumpy cushions of his couch.

It is dawn and he hasn't slept. He hasn't felt the need to, but insomnia is just another of those coping mechanisms that the detective feels doesn't warrant discussion or explanation.

He lights another cigarette and sighs.

Monday has arrived. Ryotaro is forty-two years old and six months into his newest case following the continual disappearance of medical supplies from the local Inaba hospital. Nothing seems out of place; doctors and nurses are clean and the security footage keeps coming up spotless. Regardless, things keep disappearing - mescaline and morphine and the occasional bottle of chloroform. Silly little drugs - enough to keep him busy searching for a perpetrator, but not enough to warrant a full out investigation involving the FDA. He doesn't mind. It keeps him and his new assistant busy. Kazuki - that's the man’s name. Stiff, a little reserved, but he's fitting in well. Ryotaro isn't surprised. He had taken one look at his fellow officer and calculated exactly who this man was (which was not Adachi, who he kind of wished wasn't gone, but at the same time wished for him to be dead.) Terrible, he knows.

You see, some things...some things have changed since Adachi's conviction. Some things have not.

Souji has left. The house seems emptier with him gone. Nanako is still terribly naive and still likes (loves, _adores_ ) going to Junes, but he can tell since Souji's departure that she has returned to being unbearably lonely. He tries to make time for her - he tries, he _tries_ , he really does, but it never seems like enough. He feels guilty about it, but can never remedy a proper solution. So he ignores the situation. And when he looks at himself (Ryotaro Dojima, age forty-two, blood type O-negative, fake smile, smokers cough) he sees a middle-aged man who still has trouble with cooking and laundry and making time for his daughter. Those things have _not_ changed. Quite frankly, it all seems so mundane and average and it's not like there aren’t a _million_ other families living like his—broken, and hurting—but something inside of him says this shouldn't be so.

He doesn't know what to say. He was never good with words. So he doesn't say a thing and keeps on living (pretending) that everything is just _fine._

(Because he won't admit he needed Souji more than Souji needed him and sometimes he thinks he hears Nanako crying out for her mother. He thinks back to textbook cases he learned at the police academy and the proper terminology to be used when reporting on criminal situations. He thinks about how everything is fine. 'Fine' is a relative term to be used when speaking loosely about an average, non-volatile situation. As in 'everything is fine, sir', or 'the victim seems to be doing fine'. But this situation is anything but average and it seems to be the farthest thing away from 'fine'. Dojima, by far, is an excellent liar.)

But here is the deepest secret no one should know: he can't handle it. He _cannot_ handle living alone like this, with just his daughter and no Chisato and no Souji and no—

He doesn't mean to be weak, oh no, he's far from it. But when he thinks about what his life was then, he doesn't mind the fact that he's smoking himself to an early grave now. He misses his wife, terribly. He misses her smile and her hair and the way she yawned in the early mornings when she was getting up to help Nanako get to school. He misses her cooking, her tsukimi udon, her fried tofu, and even just the way she cooked rice. _Rice_ for god sakes! He misses the way she used to iron his shirts, with the sleeves pressed in _just_ right. How she always knew the right things to say. How happy she made Nanako and himself. He misses the perfume she used to wear—a fragrant mixture of jasmine and vanilla—and sometimes, just sometimes, he'll catch a whiff it when opens a drawer or a closet and he almost wants to cry. He doesn't. Instead he lights up another cigarette and opens a window to air the place the place out. (Because the house shouldn't smell like her, not now, not a year and a half after her death.)

He is tired of coping—tired of going to work and laughing with Kazuki (who is not like Adachi _whatsoever_ ), and frowning when a lead doesn't pan out, and coming home late to his smiling daughter who never seems to mind that he keeps breaking promises; tired of missing Chisato and wishing Souji had never left. Both Chisato and Souji had kept things _together_. And now they are gone. And he—he is tired. He is on the verge of breaking and tired.

See, Ryotaro joined the ranks of the workaholics at the age of twenty, just to be the best—because he was still a loud, cocky little brat then, wanting justice and goodwill for all.

_Hah._

He was a fresh recruit from the police academy, not having had to replace his first pistol yet, then they asked. They asked _him_ , quiet, conservative, obedient Dojima Ryotaro, top in the class, and he didn't even think before accepting. He was the typical little boy looking to prove himself, joining the ranks of the mighty detectives at such a young age—not a powerhouse, but clever enough and rounded enough that he made it not matter. (He thinks now that he was such a _moronic_ little fuck. He should have said no—accepted a desk job, or applied to the traffic decision—because it was a decision that would _consume_ his life.)

Here is twenty-two years later and he is finally realizing how stupid it was—obsessing over a job and tuning out reality. But not really. See, he doesn't know what to do otherwise...because even then, at twenty years old, he was still viewing every person he met like a target; grilling them in his own subvert way and looking for weaknesses he could exploit, weaknesses that indicated _he_ was a criminal, and _she_ was a criminal and that they were all guilty. If he quit now, he's not sure he could function otherwise.

So here is the deepest secret no one knows: he doesn't know how much longer he has. He is tired (very tired), and the first time Kazuki enters his office, readying an introduction, he barely even notices the door creak open. A beat missed—a clue lost. Not enough focus, cigarette dead on his lips.

 _He nearly shoots the man straight in the head,_ face flinging up from the desktop, so startled by Kazuki's quiet “hello, sir”, and only from much practiced control does he keep himself from _not_ doing so on reflex.

It shakes him, but he doesn't have the time to take a moment to just breathe. He has to keep thinking, keep digging, and keep looking for weaknesses.

"Ah, you must be Amori Kazuki!" he snaps with a fixed grin (that is entirely for show). "Nice to meet you. I'm Dojima Ryotaro, you're new boss. Please, sit down."

Kazuki smiles and they shake hands and Ryotaro notices the nervous tic the man has reverberating from his left temple, the sweat glistening on his brow and the erratic heart rate beating through his fingertips. All reflexes indicating stress, and Ryotaro _instantly_ picks up on the other man’s nervousness.

It bothers him. He doesn't _like_ how he reads people automatically. But he can't turn it off. Maybe he shouldn't be around them. People that is. Maybe he would be happier alone (but he can't forget what is and was and Chisato and Nanako will always be there— _stuck_ —in his mind).

So he lives through it. And keeps working.

Then—

Then he comes home. Sees darling little Nanako.

She should be repressed and furious at life (her mother is dead), but she's too young to know those words, those feelings, and instead she smiles through the hurt and the too strong silence that holds the household hostage.

He looks at his daughter and notes she is eight years and four months old, blood type O-positive, has her mother’s hair and eyes, sickeningly innocent. He—

_"Dad, will...will Souji-kun ever come back to visit?"_

_Teeth grind, and without looking at her, her eyes, he replies, "...maybe, Nanako. We'll see."_

—feels as though he's failing her. (Beautiful little Nanako, with her brown bangs and her sweet smiles, who sings the Junes Department Store commercial every time it airs on the television, and plays games by herself because no one is ever home). She deserves more. Someone to look after her. Properly. Someone who can keep them together. A mother, or, or—, just someone.

So he tries harder with the other things—his job, his newly found 'friendship' with Kazuki and thinks, thinks, _thinks_. Something has to be done. He thinks about taking on another wife, but he's too old for that. Too busy. Besides, he's sure he'd have an emotional breakdown if he was forced to go through another set of vows, only to have them torn away again and made void by the untimely death of his partner. He can't handle the heartache again.

So, it goes like this (plain and simple): he doesn't know what to do. Because no amount of grilling and probing and quick, derisive words that cut and hurt his suspects will _ever_ help Nanako adjust, or bring the household back together. He knows he's a failure as a father (he's thought about this a lot— _he knows_ ) and that his parenting is lacklustre. He practically let Souji—a seventeen year old boy—run the household during his meagre stay. Talk about personal incumbency.

Ryotaro knows that he isn't (has never been) a proper family man. He is mediocre in every way except in his exact, perfect grasp of _knowing_ that he is imperfect. He sees it in himself and in other people, and that's why he's a good detective. But he has never been the best or the brightest or capable type, the type knowledgeable of cooking simple things like soup or doing laundry (he can barely sort darks from whites, and even now, colours still confuse him) or anything. He can clean. That he can do. _Barely_. But he has amazing mental clarity (he can see weaknesses), the kind that makes everyone turn to him for solidity (he seems unbreakable) despite the fact that he never really knows what to say (and has never really known what to do). It is an oxymoron if he ever saw one.

So while he is very aware that he is a _terrible_ father, he is also painfully aware that he lacks the emotional intuition to do anything about it. He knows he isn't normal or mentally healthy or well-balanced. He knows that he is forty-two years old, can't cook, clean, or cherish his daughter in the right ways. He knows. But he also knows that he is smart in ways unconventional (because if his intelligence was simply conventional, he wouldn't be so _stupid_ when it came to the everyday things that really mattered—criminals don't matter) and that is enough.

So he thinks. He thinks that he can do some good for Nanako _. Just once_. He thinks he can do some good.

He begins to search the local papers—the classified ads. Inaba is a very small town.

A babysitter. That's what he needs. Someone to look after Nanako. Someone she can talk to, who can put her to sleep when he's not there and cook a meal that isn't burnt or undercooked or overcooked. Someone to—

Help.

(He is so very tired.)

He grabs his gun off the kitchen table and heads to work.

\---

It is the better part of a decade later when Ryotaro Dojima (age forty-two, blood type O-negative, fake smile, smokers cough) begins to start faking it. It is the better part of a decade later when everything breaks, so simple and he'd been begging for it, really. He had known, deep down, with his tragedies and exhaustion and terrifying practicality that he learned to ignore so easily as he sank into middle age, that it was useless ignoring it.

But— _but_ , before—

Before he had managed to ignore it. Somehow. For the past ten years. He'd been _ignoring_ it. You see, Chisato always use to look after things. Always. And he would laugh, brushing off her responsibilities, but secretly thanking God every evening he came home to a serene household with a beautiful wife and a lovely daughter, with everything _just_ so. But now he is right back to where he started (twenty years ago) only more demolished, and there is no one around him to keep the pieces together, no one he can lean on, and rely on for, and there is nothing to laugh about. (Or someone to laugh with. Laughter is a nonexistent thing for Ryotaro Dojima, hysterics aside, but that hasn't happened since his wife died.) Ryotaro doesn't remember how to laugh. He tried once after he realized this, and it sounded like he was in pain. Souji got this really weird look on his face, like he was disturbed by it and after that he stopped trying.

Tired. Tiredtired _tired_ —

But wait. _This_ —this is how it goes. This is what snaps him out of his willful delusions.

He is manning his desk yet again because Ryotaro is a workaholic and he has finished filling out his daily paperwork. In stumbles Kazuki. Bleeding. Half-drunk.

"We—I— _you_ ," he manages. His voice only cracks once.

Ryotaro allows a concerned frown to crease his brow.

"What is it Kazuki? I'm very busy—,"

" _A fucking kid!_ " he blurts out. "Some bastard down at Odabai's just _slaughtered_ a fucking kid! A girl. A little—,"

Ryotaro's blood runs cold.

"—is it Nanako?" A silly question, really. Nanako is at home. Alone. Or at least she should be. But it just slips out; cold and hard and gritted, and there's no helping that now.

Kazuki's expression is unreadable, his mouth agape, suit affray and face a mess. Ryotaro almost _snaps—_ wants to lean over his desk, grab the man and shout to his face: "IS IT FUCKING NANAKO? IS IT MY FUCKING _DAUGHTER?_ "—but wait, Kazuki has never met Nanako, because he doesn't bring home work friends anymore, not after Adachi—and Ryotaro sighs, composes himself and waits.

Kazuki lets out a mumbled: "I _don't_ —I don't know, Dojima, 'sir."

Ryotaro turns to his assistant and adds for the other man’s benefit, "Nanako is my daughter." And then, again for his own benefit: "I'll show you a picture of her sometime."

They leave and head to the crime scene. Kazuki is half-drunk, off-duty and half strung out on nerves, unable to walk (let alone even look) into the alley way behind Odabai's bar, clutching morbidly onto his cell phone like a lifeline. Wrong place, wrong time, he thinks. Should have never decided to leave the bar at that exact _moment_. Shouldn't have had to call the cops and see the poor girl screaming and then hear the screaming stop. Ryotaro wonders if his assistant has even fired a gun before.

It's not his daughter. He looks at the crime scene and trails off because he doesn't know the name of the dead girl, but the kids standing at the edge of the scene behind the yellow tape, the mousy-haired one, the one who isn't staring into space with glazed dark eyes (Ryotaro thinks her name is Chie—maybe—he never really paid much attention to Souji's friends), fills in the blank for him.

 "Her name is— _was_ , Rise, Mr. Dojima, 'sir."

" _Oh_ —,"

Then he is sincerely shocked as he remembers and his false words trail off. He breathes. Rise. Risette Kujikawa. Famous teenage idol Rise Kujikawa with a face made for commercials and voice that bubbled like champagne. Rise. Rise, who tried to kiss Souji once, a few days before he went home.

He almost wishes his nephew had let her now. And then, pulling out his note pad (because he is a detective, an observant, authoritative detective, always looking for weaknesses and _clues_ ) he walks over to them, cigarette burning dangerously close to his lips.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I—,"

Another dark set of eyes snap to them, no longer glazed but furious. " _No_."

Mousy—Chie—is looking for someone to latch onto, though, and she fights back.

"You _asshole_ , fuck off—,"

"— _you_ fuck off! There's nuthin' to talk about, okay? She was stupid. She was _so_ —,"

Another boy interrupts them.

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Kanji! God, you are such a—a _prick_! You prick!" He repeats helplessly, furiously, seventeen years old and so very unraveled. "She was our—,"

Kanji's voice is course and heavy. "She didn't do nuthin' good, _ever_! Why the fuck did she go to that bar then, huh, Yosuke? So fuckin' selfish—,"

"Selfish? _You fucker, she's dead!_ " And with that, Yosuke attacks him. Ryotaro is mesmerized. Kanji doesn't look like he feels it, but he reacts with a swing of his fist.

"There's no other fuckin' word for it! Going into a bar and gettin' herself killed! Making us feel _guilty_ —,"

Chie gives a fresh enraged shout and joins the fray unsuccessfully.

"You bastard!—" Her voice is uncomfortably shrill. “ _She was our friend!_ She didn't _mean_ to—,"

"But she did _AND IT'S HER OWN FUCKIN' FAULT!_ " the boy—Kanji—shouts.

Yosuke tackles the taller boy to the ground and the last girl with raven hair, the one who had been silent through the entire ordeal, lets out a shriek.

The two boys roll apart and stare at each other, breathing heavily. "It was _not_ ," the brown-haired boy whispers quietly. "It was _not_ her _fault_."

Dark brown eyes blink rapidly. Quiet, hoarse words alight the situation, and Dojima recognizes this as shock.

"It was. She had to choose that fuckin' moment to be an idiot. She never gave a _damn_ before! 'Always so selfish and stuck up! Who did she think she was, _huh_? Being all noble and stuff, trying get us booze with that face of hers? Why'd we send her in there? _Why?_ " And Kanji is crying now (and Yosuke is crying, and the girl—Chie, clinging to the quiet girl next to her is crying too), and trying to ignore it.

"Why'd she do it, Yosuke?" Chie murmurs.

The tall girl with dark hair, the one hasn't said anything the whole time answers for him.

"Because she was our friend," she whispers quietly. "Because we asked her to. We thought because she was Rise—no, _Risette_ —that we could, we could..."

The girl with dark hair begins crying too.

The four teenagers are all staring at each other in the dim lights of the alley way and Ryotaro, snapping his notebook shut, thinks it was a moronically fucking _stupid_ reason to die for.

The man—a drunkard is his mid-thirties—has already been arrested, gushing willfully how he promised to buy the girl a _whole round_ of drinks. But they couldn't do it out in the open - so he made her wait out back, saying he'd bring the bottles to the backdoor. Tried to rape her. Accidently killed the poor kid.

" _IT WAS A FUCKING ACCIDENT!_ " he's screaming. " _I DIDN'T FUCKING MEAN TO! IF I HAD KNOWN SHE—OH GOD! I DIDN'T MEAN—, I DIDN'T MEAN IT—, I— ,_ "

Ryotaro wakes up from his willful delusions, closing the door to the cruiser shut. Crimes will never stop being committed. Justice and goodwill for all will never exist.

He doesn't go home.

Instead, he ends up in a bar—no, not Odabai's, but a bar. Kazuki joins him. For a moment, it almost feels like he's spending time with Adachi again, but then Kazuki starts to cry right in the middle of his fourth beer and Ryotaro calls him cab.


End file.
